


Insulted by Germans (Again)

by talktendotome



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: 'punk'ific rim, Anarchy, Friendship, Lots of Cursing, Minor Violence, Multi, Nerds in Love, Punk AU, Teenagers, butchered german, gang leader hermann, gratuitous references, im calling it..., im pouring my soul into this, kennedy jokes, older brother tendo choi, please read this, psychobilly tendo choi, punk everybody
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-09 12:16:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1982673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talktendotome/pseuds/talktendotome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back in Berlin, stuck on an army base, a young Newton Geiszler meets a young Hermann Gottlieb and shared love of punk music and anarchy. Hermann introduces his new friend to the base's resident Psychobilly punk, Tendo Choi and friendships are formed. When the new Marshall is assigned to the base and brings with him, his young daughter; a tight-knit family of outcasts is born. The group, affectionately dubbed, Kaiju Killrrrz, sets out to do what punks do-- rock on with the Marshall's permission of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Teenage Punching Bag

**Author's Note:**

> This is an ongoing endeavor, inspired by bulletseraray.tumblr.com--this au is our passion and I hope you enjoy. A brief note to explain an ongoing joke in this chapter: in 1963 US president JFK mistakenly called himself a doughnut during his speech at the Berlin Wall because of an unfortunate adverb mix-up; Newt finds this rather amusing during this following chapter. Also, added translations at the end.

Life on a military base was hard. It was even harder if you were a lonely teenager surrounded by the problems of adults too consumed with the wars they were fighting to think about you. Newton Geiszler had been born in Germany, he spoke German, he was still technically a German citizen, but stick the kid back in Berlin after a decade in the states and you didn’t exactly have a happy kid on your hands. The first weeks were spent whining at his father. Now, on day 17, Newton was content with spewing hateful accusations every chance he got about the evils of the American Government and Its Military Death Machine. Eventually, the elder Geiszler just ignored his son until the boy slammed out of their small on-base house. Once out of said house, Newton would shove his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and walk until he was out of the base, and then, he’d walk until he was in the city.

  
Berlin was a wild place, full of hate and art and soulful yelling. A city that mirrored much of what young Newton was feeling. Something about a violent history of division, spoke a reassurance to him, maybe one day his own walls would be dramatically brought down in a similar event. In the midst of this soulful reverie, Newton found himself chuckling at the thought of JFK calling himself a doughnut, “Ich bin ein Berliner.” I am a doughnut. Newton kept walking through the damp streets, past Bier Gartens and various Konditorei. Newton paid little attention to the people around him or the places he was near, until he found himself in a somewhat shady part of town, not that he was afraid, he totally wasn’t afraid. He heard yelling from down the street and the distinct sound of… sound check? The twinge of someone tuning a guitar, the cautionary tap tap of microphone testing, the crackling electricity of amplifiers, could it be a concert? Newton held a reserved, hopeful breath, he’d hung around enough music clubs and punk shows back in Boston to know. He started hustling down the street towards the sound.

  
And suddenly, he turned the corner and was back home. It was practically a Dropkick Murphy’s concert, oaky maybe not exactly a DM concert but the sea of leather jackets, spiked vests, and combat boot was safe and familiar. The gathering of German youths was lined up on the outside of a low brick building, the hum of anticipation was thick in the air and Newt was drinking it in. He walked to the end of the line and tapped the spike covered shoulder of the girl in front of him.

  
“Welche Band spielt?”

  
“Wizo.” The girl answered, gleefully, adjusting her vest.

“Sie jeder gute?”

“Sehr.” She responded in earnest.

“Du Englisch?”

  
“No, I’m German. You must be American,” She asks with a smile, “your accent wasn’t terrible, just so you know.”

Newt laughs at her joke and scratches his face.

“Clever. Dual citizenship, if you must know.”

She laughs, and pats his shoulder,”Welkommen, kid.”

After this exchange the line starts moving and the excitement amps up. Newt has missed this. He hadn’t been to a gig in too long. Once he’d turned fifteen he spent every Friday and Saturday at shows, fucking shit up as best as a lonely fifteen year old with astigmatism and some mild asthma could. And the list of gigs was long, and the smuggled cigarettes and beer were stale, but Newton Geiszler lived for it. He lived for the fights and the noise. He was seventeen now, asthma was well managed and that fucking need to be in the pit and thrash it out bridged the gap between countries and languages. In short, he was fucking ready for this.

He was pushed into the small venue, the whole place collectively reeked of weed and stale Jägermeister. Newt grinned to himself though, and pushed his way down into the middle of the pit. The opening band came out, three lanky guys with spiked hair and tight jeans stood before the crowd of hollering German punks. Newton didn’t catch the band’s name, but he thinks it was “Pig anus”. There was a fleeting thought of ‘wow that’s real damn classy’ before the bass line was thrumming out and fast guitar riffs fill his head and he can’t think. Next thing he knows he’s flying forward into the back of a six and half foot tall skin head. And then he’s slammed sideways into who knows what kind of person. And Newton Geiszler is back, baby. He’s back. He slams and kicks and sprawls and punches harder than anyone around him then he’s being picked up and thrown toward the stage. He lands on the hard wood and the thin dude holding the microphone yells at him and he shouts a collection of German profanities out and grabs the microphone.

  
“ICH BIN EIN BERLINER!”

  
The crowd yells, shouts, seethes and he dives back into the fold. Newt keeps up his frantic thrashing, he’s working through his problems, fighting his demons. He’s punching his father for bringing them back here. He’s kicking the bullies from school who may get the impression he bailed Boston because of them. He’s yelling at his mom for leaving. This is what punk is about. The rage-filled catharsis Newton Geiszler was submerged in this very second. The set ends soon, and the crowds’ momentum slows and stops. Newt pulls himself up from the floor, and lets out a, pardon the moment of awful poetry, ‘barbaric yawp’. Then, drags himself over to the venue’s bar.

  
Newton orders a beer, the cheap kind, he hands a couple of crumpled euros to the bartender and gulps half of it down. He doesn’t know what kind it is, but piss cheap German beer is so much better than stale bud lite, that being said it’s still in those little plastic cups where’s half a beer and no one has bottles to break. Newt can’t really be bothered about that though he was too busy being relieved at not getting carded. He only had eleven months before he was legal here so he’d hadn’t bothered to get a fake yet. First beer down, he gets another, and pounds it back. He’s about to buy a third when he feels a sharp thump on his shoulder, and it fucking hurts. What is that a stick? He puts his hand on the object occupying his shoulder like it belongs there. He thinks it’s a cane.

  
“Ow, hey, what the fuck was that for?” He follows it up with German, just in case, “Was zum Teufel?”

  
“You’re a fucking doughnut, then, Kennedy?” A harsh accented voice questions.

Newton turns around and drops the end of the cane off his shoulder. He has to look up, not because this guys is towering over him, but he is pretty tall. It’s some kid with a terrible haircut, shaved up the sides and half-way up the back with chunk of the mostly dark hair bleached white. It’s sticking up in every direction. Newton kinda digs it to be honest. The face of the guy, is harsh and angry, a frowning frog mouth and these deep eyes. Newt’s staring a little maybe. He’s leaning heavily against the cane. He’s sweaty and wearing this old The Clash t-shirt that’s too big and just hanging off him. Newton thinks he’s in love.

“Yea, I’m good ole JFK and you can be Jackie and I’ll buy you a pink Chanel suit. How about that?” Newt bites his lip and gestures to the bartender for two more beers and slams the money down, never looking away for the boy in front of him.

“You’re the new kid on the base aren’t you?” Its simple question but it hit Newton like an accusation.

“Maybe.”

Newt takes the beers and hands one to his new friend.

“You are, cut the shit. What’s your name?” The German kid swallows the whole of the plastic cup in one drink. Newton follows suit and downs his beer. He feels tingly and warm.

“Newton Geiszler. Call me Newt.” He offers his hand out and the other grabs and shakes it.

“Hermann Gottlieb.”

Newt nods, and Hermann glares and the moment feels right. After another second, Hermann grabs Newt by the arm and starts pushing him to the door. Newt is confused and sputtering, but he makes no attempt to get away. Before they exit someone throws a jacket to Hermann, who lets go of Newton’s arm long enough to put it on before resuming his grip and pushing Newt out the door.

The cool night air hits his fever, hot skin and he’s shivering through his jacket. Hermann’s already dragging him back up the alley, into the city. Newton is just following dazed, trying to manage what’s going on. He was clear on most of it; he left the house, he found a gig, he moshed, he had three beers, met some weirdo from the base, and was being dragging around by said weirdo. It was the latter two points that were causing some confusion.

“Hey, man, where are we going?”

The answer came briskly back.

“Back to the base.”

“Why? The base is a drag, dude.”

Hermann stopped for a minute, let go of Newt and pulled a crushed pack of smokes from his jacket. He pulled on out with his teeth, then held the pack out to Newt, who took one. Newt reached into his jeans for his lighter and a flick and an inhale later he was smoking like a chimney. Newt held out the lighter for Hermann. The German kid begrudgingly lit his cigarette, he took a drag off it then spoke.

“Newton, we’re going back to the base because I’m not going to be responsible for you getting in trouble.”

“Okay, asswad, three things.” Newt angrily held up three fingers and took his cigarette from his mouth.

“One: who says I’m gonna get into any trouble, you? You don’t fucking know me, pal. Two: how the fuck would you be responsible if I hypothetically did get into some trouble? Some angry little frog mouthed prick is not my babysitter, alright? And three: do you live on the base? Like are you some little Deutscher Armeegör, huh?” Newt was kind of pissed off, who did this little shit think he was talking like he was in charge of him? He also repressed that little bit of him that liked the authoritative tone of voice, because authority is not punk. So fuck this Hermann kid.

“Oh, fuck off,I’m not an army brat like you. My father does civilian work but we still live on the base. And to answer your other questions, look at yourself, you’re practically itching to get into trouble. I’m surprised the bouncer didn’t beat you off the stage when you pulled your doughnut bullshit. Sheisse. And I feel responsible because if you did get beat off the stage, or mugged, or whatever shenanigans you were planning—I would’ve had to intervene and I wasn’t supposed to be at that gig. So call it self-preservation.”

Hermann finished his spiel and his smoke. He took a considering last drag then stomped out. He pointed his cane out, gesturing for Newton to start walking. Which he did.

“You don’t have to be some goddamn hero, Hermann. If I do get my ass kicked, you shouldn’t save me.”

“I will not. And you will accept that.”

Newt laughed, he really laughed. Here’s this scrawny German kid, leaning on his cane, in oversized clothes and that stupid hair, pretty much telling Newton he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to him. Maybe crazy thing is, Newt believed him. Back in Boston, Newt got bullied pretty mercilessly by these huge football players and there wasn’t much he could do but sit back and get the shit kicked out of him; and yet he thinks if Hermann had been there, he would’ve been okay. Newton throws a heavy arm around Hermann’s shoulders, and he shakes his head at that look of utter distaste, but Hermann makes no move to remove it. They walk all the way back that way, they ended up talking about The Clash and Black Flag and The Sex Pistols. It was nice, and for the first time Newton had a friend. A real honest to god friend.

When they got to the base, they had to show their ident cards to the guard. The burly, uniformed man regarded them both with a harsh eye and harsher words.

“Oh look der Frosch hat eine kleine Schwuchtel.”

Newton was going to explode. Newton was one of those people, that yea, say what you want about him, he could handle himself; but say something about someone he cared about he would rip your eyeballs out of your ear holes.

“Es tut mir leid, was hast du gesagt?”

The guard walked up to Newton, and got in his face.

“Right, you must be the American. I said ‘look the frog has a little faggot.’”

Newton stepped back and nodded, feigning contemplation.

“See, that’s what I thought you said.”

If you blinked you would’ve missed it. Hermann blinked. Next thing he knew, the other boy pounding his fists into the guard’s face, and let the record show Newt got several good hits in before he was flat on his back on the pavement with a large boot in the middle of his chest. Hermann made his split second decision to be a goddamn hero. He flung his cane down over the guard’s knee and the large man it the ground like a sack of shit. Hermann pulled Newt up quickly and they went past the check point as fast as they could with Newt constantly yelling “fuck you, fascist pig” and Hermann limping. But, somehow they made it back to Hermann’s house.


	2. Safe European Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuance of Newton and Hermann's first evening together, and the introduction of one- Tendo Choi. AKA: the boys have a sleepover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so touched and amazed by all the kudos and hits that this has gotten already; I'm still something of a novice at writing because I've never had the confidence to finish anything. I just want to thank everyone for their support. As always a certain amount of credit goes to my dear, dear friend and fellow fiend: bulletseraray.tumblr.com. Comments and Kudos are remarkably appreciated.

Hermann’s house was one of the larger and older homes on the base, it was a towering affair from the last century with harsh angles and ornately carved latticing that was part Victorian, part Bavarian which lent well itself to a parallel between architectural choices and its culturally blended resident—Hermann.

  
The aforementioned resident pulled himself, with a heavy determination, up the three steep steps of the large front porch. Newton followed behind with a grin pulling at his mouth. Hermann’s jacket-covered shoulders were a sight to behold and Newt was rather pleased to do so. The American was seriously wondering how he went from puddering around his house and berating his father to smugly looking at the shapely back of an enigmatic German boy with whom he was becoming steadily more enamored with. It was a decidedly awesome turn of events. When Hermann finally looked back at Newton, he tried and failed to camouflage a look of concern with irritation; Newt was oblivious to the thick rivulets of blood running from his nose and the dark beginnings of what are sure to be a nasty bruise around his eye. Instead, his dopey smile just shifts to a look of confusion.

  
“What, dude?”

  
“Newton, your face is an absolute mess. That fucker really did a number on you.” Hermann sighs.

  
Newt swiped quickly at his face, he was surprised by the amount of blood he’d wiped off.

“Oh man. Motherfucker.” Newton just shrugged and wiped the blood on his thigh, leaving a rusty, wet patch on the denim of his jeans. Hermann shook his head in dismay and swung his door open, he gestured to invite Newt inside.

 

“You’ll let me clean you up.” It wasn’t a question, or even an offer so much as order. Before he walked through the door, Newt slapped his hand over his nose to prevent any stains in the lavishly furnished and clearly antique home he was about to enter. Hermann maybe was a take-no-shit hardcore punk, but Newt had the clear feeling he still respected his parents’ home and their belongings. Hermann pulled the door shut behind him and gave Newt a curt nod.

“Your jacket.” Hermann reached out with one arm. Newt quickly pulled off his favored leather jacket and handed to him. Newt adjusted the sleeves of his shirt as Hermann hung it up in the closet then removed his own worn, tartan blazer. In the light of the hall, Newt could see a collection of buttons pinned to the lapels, at some point he’d ask Hermann if he could look at all of them, but he saw one that looked heavily math related and that somehow felt very appropriate. Hermann turned away from the closet, gripping his cane lightly, he gestured down a long, vaguely eerie hall.

“Last door at the end of the hall, that’s my room. There’s a pull light above the first step. Go wait down there, I’ll be along in a moment.”

“Is there even any point in me arguing with that plan?” Newton tested, voice muffled awkwardly the hand over his nose.

Hermann was quick to answer with a very simple yet firm, “No.”

Newton threw his shoulders into a quick shrug before making his way down the hallway Hermann had directed him down. When he looked around, Hermann was already gone, so Newt figured he’d just do what he was told. He opened the cherry stained door, and a darkened staircase and the shadowy outline of a hanging light was revealed. A sharp tug on the frayed string hanging from said light and the stairs were wearily illuminated.

Newton went down to Hermann’s basement, a large room that he instantly felt at ease in. The cinderblock walls were covered in graffiti, a large red ‘666’ sticks out. Newt only absently thinks to himself, ‘I feel so welcome here.’ He walked around the room with a casual interest, there were boxes marked ‘Hermann’ in messy sharpie with a’s made into little anarchy signs. This extra touch earned a chuckle. There was a large, overstuffed worn leather couch in the center of the room. And there were several thread bare oriental rugs thrown over the cold cement floor. There was an old record player in front of the couch, it was hooked up to a vintage tube amplifier and ‘The Clash’ was on the turntable. Surprisingly, there was a very organized desk shoved up against one wall, it was covered with notebooks and papers. Unsurprisingly, there were clothes spread and piled on the floor, a creaky looking bed sat in the corner, and the whole place was quite homey. Newt decided to collapse on the couch and it was just as comfy as he had anticipated.

Upstairs, Hermann rummaged through the bathroom for some rubbing alcohol and bandages. He also got a rag and ran it under some hot water before ringing it out. He gathered all of the proper supplies and put them in a small basket that’d been sitting on the counter. Then, he headed to the kitchen and fished a few beers out of the refrigerator, he sat them in the basket and leaned against the fridge door for a long moment, thinking about the events of the evening. What was he going to do with that frightfully ridiculous boy he had waiting downstairs? Well, Hermann Gottlieb had a few ideas. His train of thought was interrupted by the stifled sound of Newton shouting from downstairs.

“Hermann, I found an ashtray and a pack of cigarettes—I’m bumming one—I hope you don’t mind but even if you do, that won’t change anything. Say something if you’re not okay with it, even though I’ll just ignore you. It’s lit, I am smoking, too late now.”

Hermann sighed, and walked towards his door and the arduous task of going to his basement.

Once he heard the first awkward scuffling and thumping of Hermann coming down, Newt jumped up to assist. He ran halfway up the stairs only to have a cane shoved at him and an irritated litany of; “I assure you, I can manage.” And “go sit down, you bastard, you’re going to get blood and ash everywhere.”

Newt relented, taking a drag on the half a cigarette he was left with, and jumped the last steps then flitted over to the couch. Hermann arrived a moment later, stiffly sitting close to Newt, and placing his cane up against the side of the couch.

Newt almost went as far as to sprawl back into the couch and he placed the cigarette back between his lips. Hermann leaned over and put the basket on the other boy’s lap with a quick command of, “hold this.” Newt’s cigarette hung loosely from his mouth, threatening to fall from his lips as they pulled into yet another smile. Hermann picked up a beer and popped it open with a bottle opener that was with the keys clipped to his belt loop. He handed the open beer to Newt, who tamped out the smoke and took a grateful swig, smearing blood all over his mouth. Hermann had opened his own beer by that point and he too, took a large, border-line anxious gulp. He put the bottle on the floor by his foot and reached for the rag.

“Come here, Newton.” They both scooted a little closer together, sharing the same space, and gently, Hermann wipes the drying blood from his friend’s face. Newton has a good sized gash across the bridge of his nose and few small scrapes on his chin and cheeks. He hisses as at the sting, and Hermann hushes him. The smooth strokes of the rag slowly dissolves the dark stains to the point Newton’s face is clean but flushed. Hermann trades the rag for the alcohol and some cotton, and takes another drink of his beer.

“Shit, man that’s gonna sting like a motherfucker, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Newton.”

“Why don’t you call me Newt?”

“Because it’s ridiculous.”

Newt shakes his head, and takes a sip of his beer. While he’s distracted, Hermann takes the opportunity to press the alcohol-soaked cotton to the bridge of his nose. Newton tensed up, he hissed and groaned loudly, the bottle dropped to his lap.

“Fuck, dude!” Newt practically screeches. Hermann takes his free hand grips Newt’s chin, careful not to press any of the scrapes, to tilt his face closer. Once again, Hermann placates Newt with little calming sounds. He dabbed the cotton over the cut a couple times, dirt and more blood was wiped away, leaving the cut clean. Hermann tossed the dirty cotton away, and picked out a bandage.

“Tell me it’s got dinosaurs on it?”

Hermann only shook his head and put the plain, tan bandage carefully across the wound.

“Too bad. You gonna kiss it better at least?”

Newton meant the comment as a joke, if someone—Hermann would question him, it was sarcastic; he’d had a few and his face was busted and he was just joking around. But Hermann just grasped his chin again, pulling his battered face closer than before, they were sharing breath, and Hermann leans in and ever so gently lays his lips over the bandage. Newt is holding his breath. Hermann isn’t even sure why he does it, but he doesn’t regret it. He moves his lips to Newt’s bruised cheekbone and carefully lays another soft kiss, before letting go of the other boy’s face and straightening his shirt.

“There all better.”

“Yea, my hero.” Newt sighs, he takes another sip of beer and moves the basket from its place on his lap. Hermann leans forward and flips on the record player. The Clash plays, Newt and Hermann sink farther into the couch. Hermann pulls a phone from his pocket, he dials a number, it rings, and Newton looks confused.

***

  
On the other side of the base, a nineteen year old—usually smooth-talking-- Tendo Choi frantically tries to calm the messy chattering of worried Spanish his grandmother is heaving through the receiver from Peru.

“Ci, ci Abuela, everything’s fine. Mama didn’t answer because it’s 2:30 in the morning here and she’s asleep. Ci, we are in Germany –Alemania still. Okay, buenas noches Abuela, ci, ci, yes okay I will have her call you in the morning.”

Sometimes, he dislikes being the only one awake at such unorthodox times, but if Tendo is honest with himself; he’d rather his grandmother not worry herself too much. Even if that meant these late night- early morning calls in muttered Spanglish about where they were and why her daughter never answered the telephone. Tendo sighed and sat back down on the overstuffed couch to finish watching Boris Karloff’s classic performance as The Mummy. Just as the kid settles in and gets comfortable, his phone rings again. He lets out an almost disappointed huff, it’s not his Abuela maybe calling again to tell him to go to bed, but it’s a call that promises to be a bit more interesting. Tendo wants to ignore it, fuck the kid for expecting him to be up at this time. It’s goddamn rude to call at this hour, and the little fucker is always up his ass about manners. But, in the end, Tendo does answer Hermann’s call because as much as he loves this film, the angular German boy was practically a real life Karloff. So, Tendo begrudgingly answers.

“Whadda ya want?”

“Tendo, you really ought to swing by the house.” There’s unfamiliar giggling on the line and a high, muffled voice asks, “Tendo? What kind of name is that?” Hermann gives an aggressive shush. Tendo shakes his head, but ignores it.

“Why? Did you get me a present?” Tendo asks, maybe more than a bit sarcastically, but hey who knows what kind of shit Hermann was trying to pull. The guy could get pretty scheme-y sometimes.

”Something like that, just come over. Now, preferably.” And with that there was the dull click of the ended conversation.

‘That little fucker,’ Tendo said to himself, but even so here he was reaching for his boots and his jacket, and he tucks a cigarette behind his ear for later, because somehow he did like Hermann. Besides it’s not that far of a walk and it’s not like he’s really got anything better to do. So, Tendo figures Hermann just wants to listen to Black Flag records and introduce him to some weird kid he picked up at that concert, and that wouldn’t be a terrible way to spend what little of the night remained. He grabbed a six pack from his garage before he started off for Hermann’s.

After a short walk through the base, Tendo stands on the dark, wood porch of the Gottlieb residence, hand poised to knock, when the large door swings open seemingly of its own accord, but after he steps in he sees a Hermann lurking menacingly behind it like a classic horror movie villain, the older boy just rolls his eyes.

“Here I am, Hermann, my man; and I brought a peace offering.” Tendo said with a wink and gesture to the beer.

Hermann just huffed a little.

So, what’s up that you had to bother me at this ungodly hour?” Tendo questions with no real malice. But Hermann’s already heading down the hall, so Tendo follows, his inquiry hanging in atmosphere like musty cigarette smoke, and when Herman swings open another door and begins the awkward hobble down the stairs to what could only be described as his inter-sanctum; or his basement would also be a fitting description; Hermann finally answers.

“There’s someone you’re going to want to meet.”

This was true enough because once the boys rounded the corner off the final rickety step, Tendo saw an unfamiliar figure lounging on Hermann’s lumpy second hand couch. The figure was of course one Newton Geiszler, who jumped up to greet them a moment later—bandaged, buzzed, and slap-happy, excited to meet Hermann’s friend. Newt walks with a stumble to Tendo and sticks out a friendly hand, which Tendo shakes firmly and introduces himself. Newt and Tendo hit it off pretty well, a shared crush on Cramps guitarist, Poison Ivy Rorschach, seemed to ensure their friendship and frankly, Hermann was pleased.

The trio flopped onto the couch and cracked open their beers while Newton regaled the daring acts of bravery and anarchy that he and Hermann had accomplished on their way home, while Tendo sat enthralled and oddly proud of the two.

“So, then Hermann just smacks him with that ridiculous fucking cane a bunch of times and like, he saved me.” Newt slurred, gesturing wildly with his hands, unconscious of the beer he was spilling.

Hermann drank with a bemused expression.

They drank and were merry. Several loud conversations, six beers, and three or so records later; Tendo started bragging about the bottle of home distilled Russian vodka that had been “home distilled by real Russians, brother, it’s some good shit.” And then the bragging changed to begging.

“Hermann, break the bottle out, we gotta celebrate this kid joining our gang.”

Newt looked expectant and happy, “I’d be honored to join your gang.”

Hermann shook his head, but he stood up and dug through a deep desk drawer for a minute before he pulled out a large bottle.

“You’re both ridiculous.”

Newton just giggled and rolled around on the couch. Hermann plopped down in between them and Tendo threw a sloppy arm around Hermann. They passed the bottle around, Newt winced at the burn. But it was indeed very good vodka. Half a bottle later, they were incredibly sloshed at this point; sprawled lazily over one another. The boys were dozing off; Newt’s face was cornered into Hermann’s collar bone, and Tendo laid his head back on his outstretched arm.

“You like this kid, Hermann.” It wasn't a question. Hermann didn't answer, he didn't need to. Tendo gave a nod, and took another drink of vodka.

“Well,I’m crashing here, brother, so better get you and your boy into bed.”

Hermann roused Newt, and they both stood up, stretched, and Hermann pushed him to the mattress. Stiffly, Hermann crouched down to sit beside him, but Newt was barely sitting up right. Hermann leaned over and pulled off Newton’s heavy combat boots, then he pulled off his own battered Doc Martins. Then he stood back up to take his jeans off.

“Nice.” Newt slurred, happily. He tried to stand up, there was a moment of fumbling before Newt stood up and wrestled his way out of his own tight, black jeans. He was wearing Godzilla boxers, a comediec detail that was not lost on his friends.

“Nice, yourself monster boy,” Tendo chided from the couch, he had already taken off his button-up bowling shirt and his pants, and was in a pair of plain black boxers and undershirt. He flopped back down on the couch, chuckling quietly. Hermann was trying his damnedest not to laugh. Newt just slapped his hands on his hips and struck a pose. Hermann failed to stifle his laughter this time.

“Come to bed, you insufferable prat.”

“Oh Herms, I’d love to.” And with that Newt Geiszler crawled into Hermann Gottlieb’s bed, and Tendo Choi complained from the couch.

“Get a room, you squares.”

“Get better slang, you hepcat,” Hermann yelled.

“I’ve never had a sleepover before guys, this is great.” Newt mumbled as he fell asleep.


	3. Outsider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast, the struggles of getting dressed, and Mako Mori.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for taking so long to update!

The next morning, or mid-afternoon rather, Tendo was the first to awaken; he slowly stretched his arms and cracked his neck. It took him several minutes to feel coherent enough to actually sit up though. First thing he did after cringing over the cold concrete on his feet as reach for his pack of cigarettes and light one up. He looked in the direction of the frumpy mattress to what appeared to be Hermann laying unassuming on his back, and Newt sprawled across most of the bed and Hermann himself. There was an occasional snore or heavy sigh that drifted through the cool, dank basement air. Tendo couldn’t suppress a chuckle at the sleeping boys.

“I hope y’all are enjoying that shared closet, boys. It’s a walk in.” He mused affectionately, tamping out the smoke in the now, startlingly full ashtray. He broke his gaze from his sleeping friends to take a piss and go rustle up some grub.

Hermann’s sizable kitchen remained well stocked, even in his family’s absence: Lars Gottlieb, Hermann’s father, had been sent—temporarily, of course—to an American Naval base in Okinawa, if Tendo remembered correctly. Hermann and subsequently Tendo, had no idea when the elderly and bitter physicist would return or what he was working on, classified, as it were. Not that his son particularly cared about any of that. And then, there were siblings; one off at Uni in London, one (the sister, Tendo was sure) running around Europe on some photography project or something like that, and the youngest was stuck at a boarding school somewhere or other. But despite, or maybe in spite, the empty house Hermann refused to let the house fall unequipped in anyway.

He elected to abstain from going straight to expresso since he was unfamiliar with Newt’s coffee proclivities, so Tendo opted for a more friendly full pot of regular dark roast. He checked the pantry and low and behold; a bag of bagels from their preferred local bakery. He couldn’t help but smile to himself, sometime before Hermann snuck out for that concert, he went to the bakery and bought Tendo’s favorite bagels. The kid might be a demanding little shit sometimes, but goddamn, he was a good friend. He sliced a few up, and threw them in the toaster. While he was waiting, he found a serving tray, some mugs, the cream cheese and butter, and some cream and sugar. 

With a ‘pop’ the bagels came out steaming and crisp, Tendo used the ‘hot-potato’ method of removal since the last time he stuck a butter knife in Hermann’s weird industrial toaster resulted in a thorough berating from its owner. He threw them on the tray, and grabbed the now full coffee pot. 

He was just about to return downstairs, figuring that this should be an adequate breakfast, when he remembered their foray into Russian grain alcohol and decided to stop back in the bathroom for a bottle of aspirin. He popped two himself as a preventive, then headed back down to wake the boys.

They were, albeit, expectedly, still a piled mash of bodies and worn blankets. Tendo sat the tray down on a side table and poured himself of coffee, in a chipped black mug that was reserved for his visits. A lot of things about living in Germany sucked some major and not pleasant dick for Tendo Choi, but this fine, gourmet variety of coffee that was probably grown in the misty heights of the mountains of his very own fucking Peru, this delicious fucking brew that was probably upwards of twenty American dollars a pound, was definitively not one of those things. And he was goddamn grateful for it. 

He took a contented sip, before he crouched down by a teetering stack of vinyl, and looked for his and Hermann’s shared copy of Black Flag’s ‘Nervous Breakdown’; one of his favorites because of a strange soft spot he felt for Black Flag—it was probably just front man, Henry Rollins beautiful fucking eyes though, but Tendo preferred not to examine that particular sentiment too closely. He found the record and put it on the turntable on an acceptable morning volume.

He stood back up and stepped over to the bed, he attempted to rouse Newton by administering a few light nudges with top of his foot. Newt just sort of obstinately grunted but after a few more moments the sound of Black Flag, the smell of coffee, and the insistence of Tendo Choi finally proved too much stimulus for him to ignore. He slowly blinked bleary eyes at the greaser standing above him.

“Morning Princess”

Hermann seemed stirred by the wakeup call as well, and started to stiffly stretch around the benign tumor that was Newton Geiszler. 

“And, a good morning to you, too, Prince Charming.” Tendo continued smarmily. The ever-courteous Mister Choi picked up the tray and with an easy command of, “sit up, fucking losers,” the occupants of the bed scooted to make space. Newt sat crisscrossed, and Hermann left his bad leg stretched out but tucked up his good one. Tendo sat in the resulting free room, he placed the tray in between them.

Hermann was rubbing his temples, and Tendo tossed the bottle of aspirin to him with a, “Thought as much.”

Hermann took two with a sip of coffee and a grunt, he offered Newt an explanation, “There’s a reason I save that shit in a desk drawer.”

“Yeah, there is, and since you won’t tell him. I will. You see, Newt, Hermann here isn’t a big fan of the hard stuff, understandable, sure.”  
Hermann was sitting, scandalized, “Don’t you fucking dare, Choi.”

“Oh, I fucking dare, Gottlieb,” Tendo continued, cheekily, “Anyway, he really doesn’t even like beer. He drinks it because he isn’t a traitor to his godforsaken country, but he doesn’t  
like it. What Hermann fuckin’ Gottlieb really likes, and I mean goes ham on is…”

It should be addressed, that in this moment, Hermann looked as though he was going to stab Tendo with a butter knife for his insubordination. His face was hot and red with embarrassment and Newt sat beside him, totally enthralled.

“…nice little fruity drinks. What’s your favorite, Hermann? Peach wine coolers, isn’t it?”

“Fuck off you—you—retro vintage twat!” Came Hermann’s furious response.

“Oh, Hermann, you always know what to say to me”, Tendo said, dramatically throwing his head on to Hermann’s shoulder, while Newt laughed so hard he fell into Hermann’s lap.

They finished breakfast at leisurely pace after that, easy conversations about their interests and themselves; Hermann listens attentively to Newt talk enthusiastically about his first concert back in Boston. After their talks come to a simple close an hour or so later, they get dressed. Newt doesn’t want to leave, nor does he particularly want to even put his jeans back on, but Tendo and Hermann want to show him around some more. 

So, he does get them back on, slowly, distractedly—Hermann’s changing his shirt—it’s pretty damn distracting. Hermann is all lean shoulders and a bony back, it leads into narrow hips. Newt’s got his jeans stuck around his thighs, not even paying attention to anything but Hermann raising his arms to slip on a clean t-shirt. There’s a sharp slap to the center of his back, it knocks his breath out a little. He turned to Tendo giving him a knowing smirk and a wink. 

“Go for it, brother, but—ah—maybe finish putting your jeans on first.”

Newt stands, in a manner that would call to mind visuals of a very confused young lizard, he struggles for another moment pulling his jeans all the way up, "Uhh, right, okay."

Tendo pats his back again, lightly this time, before pulling his phone out and loudly announcing he’s gotta call his mom about something. He shoots Newt another wink before running up the stairs. Hermann turns to Newton and throws him a clean—maybe—shirt, it’s well-worn and has a couple holes in it. 

“Thanks, dude.”

Hermann nods, he doesn’t look away when Newt pulls off his dirty shirt and Newt’s trying to talk and change at the same time, “So, uh, dude, I’m like really glad I met you. You’re like so cool, and anyway I uh—could you help me?”

Newt has his arms stuck awkwardly in the shirt. Hermann steps close and gives the bottom a little tug so the shirt settles, albeit tightly, onto Newton’s frame. 

“What were you saying Newton?”

Newt pulls at the shirt, and rubs his palms together. He knows he being ridiculous, he only met this guy last night for fucks sake, but he slept better last night than he had in actual years. Cuddled up with Hermann was just where he wanted to be. He took a deep breath.

“Right, dude, Herms, do you wanna like go out with me sometime? But like a date?”

Now comes the frantic backpedaling. “But like only if you want to, if you’re like into that? Or…”

Hermann cuts him off, “That would be nice,” he pulls Newt in for a quick hug.

“Right, cool.”

Tendo comes stomping back down the stairs, yelling, “Hey did you losers hear? There’s a new Marshall being assigned? Apparently, he’s got a kid. You wanna go check it out?”  
They both agree that’s a fine course of action.  
***  
Mako Mori is fifteen years old, she was at the top of her class in a private school in Tokyo. She excelled in both academics and martial arts. She spoke three languages and loved her father very much. When they were transferred to Berlin, although she was upset, she was never once disrespectful. But all this aside, here she was hauling her luggage to their new home while several German soldiers ogled her like a piece of meat.

The last time someone dared look at her that way she slammed his face into a dirty brick wall six times, and his family was reassigned to Hawaii. Mako Mori was the adopted daughter of a man that people spent so much time being afraid of, they often forgot she could be just as dangerous. 

“Come along, Mako.” Her father’s voice boomed. She fell into step behind him, and she ignored the eyes on her. “And you all better get back to work, you keep your eyes where they are now, you’re damn liable to lose them. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

The Marshall walked ahead and the barrage of “yes, sir’s” earned a small smirk from Mako. Her celebration was short lived when she heard whispers from behind her.  
“Is that the kid then?”

“Obviously.”

“Yea, but did ya see the Marshall, not too shabby is what I’m saying.”

She swung around to face… three teenage boys that dress like hoodlums, with clunky boots and spiked jackets.

The shortest one, with dark hair and thick framed glasses, he was wearing a worn out shirt that was much too small, he stuck out his hand to shake. “I’m Newton Geiszler, call me Newt.” They shook hands.

The thin one with a glare and a cane introduced himself politely next. “Hermann Gottlieb, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Newt chimes in, “God, Hermann, you’re such an old man.” Hermann gives him a bitter look, but even she can see it’s harmless.

The third one, he looks like a greaser from that Outsiders movie she watched with her father once.

“Hey, Tendo Choi, solid to meet cha, sister.”

She gives a curt and respectful, “Mako Mori, good to meet you.”

Who were these boys, why were they so forward? Why did the greaser sound like he was interested in her father? 

It’s Newt talking again, “Mako, you ever heard of The Ramones?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thanks everyone! Sorry this chapter was a little short.

**Author's Note:**

> "Welche Band spielt": Which band is playing?  
> "Sie jeder gut?": They any good?  
> "Sehr": very  
> " Deutscher Armeegör": German army brat  
> "Es tut mir leid, was hast du gesagt": I'm sorry, what did you say?  
> These are only the translations that were not originally said in English or weren't repeated in English soon after.


End file.
